Right Now
by wmmhija
Summary: RENTfic--Mark. Roger. Sitting at a table smiling. M/R, I suppose.
1. Some

Disclaimer: Characters created by Jonathon Larson, not me.  I don't know who actually owns them now, but I assure you it isn't me.

_"It is not that some people have willpower and some don't.  It's that some people are ready to change and others are not." ~James Gordon, M.D._

"Right Now"

By Annie

Part One – Some

            You don't really know when it happened, when caring for him crossed the line between best friend and something more.  You just know that it did, that one day you heard his compulsive guitar tuning and smiled and knew it was love.

            You vaguely remember being jealous of Mimi, though you didn't recognize it at the time.  You just look back on footage, stuff not even remotely useful to any movie anywhere, and think how obvious you were.  Exactly how much film could you waste on him anyway?

            The happiest time for you during the Mimi period was the few weeks between his return from Santa Fe and Christmas Eve, when she almost died.  He was happy, despite his fruitless search for Mimi, and spent huge amounts of time making sure you knew he hadn't meant the things he'd said and that he'd missed you more than anything.  You're pretty sure he was more upset over calling you a failure than running out on his girlfriend at his friend's funeral.  That, you thought, was something.

            The Age of Mimi didn't last much longer than that, anyway.  After a brief period in which she and he were inseparable, conjoined at the mouth (most unpleasant for you to watch), she fell into old habits.  She couldn't—wouldn't—give up smack and just had to go out every night she wasn't working.  Eventually, she drifted away from the people who cared about her and there was nothing any of you could do to stop her.  Benny was even forced to evict her, not from lack of rent, but because he discovered drug deals were being made in the building and wouldn't stand for it.  Your musician pitched a fit after that, screaming and yelling and even getting in a good punch before you stepped between them.  He understood, though, and you even got him to apologize to Benny.

            That was a hard time for him, for you both, and you did your best to be the best friend.  You gave him an ear to talk to and a hand to squeeze.  You knew you were the only person in New York City to have seen him cry over anything and you didn't take that lightly.

            You loved him and you thought that it was something special because it wasn't like any love you'd ever felt before. Not Nanette Himmelfarb or your 11th grade English teacher or even the girl who kicked sand in your face when you were six.  Even Maureen, who you really had loved despite most people deeming it childish infatuation.  No, your love for Maureen had been a weird, fluttery feeling in the pit of your stomach, and there were still moments where she would laugh or say something and you'd be reminded of exactly why you'd fallen for her in the first place.

            It only served to fuel your love for him, though.  To fuel the warm sense of calm that spread through your body whenever he was near, because that was Maureen and this was so much more.  You'd be okay and he'd be okay, just so long as you had each other.  And you would because he'd promised he'd never leave you again after that fateful voyage out west and you believed him, and because you certainly weren't going anywhere unless he was right there next to you.  That's just how the two of you worked.  Together, taking care of each other right to the end.

            Maybe one day you'd both actually leave this dirty city for greener pastures.  Or maybe you'd stay in your loft together until the end of time.  Right now you didn't really care because he was sitting across from you, grinning at you and still compulsively tuning and all you knew at that moment is that you loved him and you didn't care when it had happened, just that it did.


	2. Others

Part Two – Others

            When two people live in a confined space for so long, there are certain things they learn about each other.  Even totally oblivious people like yourself.  You didn't have his gift of observation, of seeing everything at once to capture on his mind's eye, as well as his camera, but even you could pick up some things if given enough time.

            You knew he was anal retentive about really stupid things like making sure drawers and cabinets were shut entirely and that toilet paper ripped cleanly.  You were even known to walk into his room just to open his dresser drawer a crack because he couldn't not get up to close it and that always made you chuckle.

            You also knew that, when the occasion for such a luxury arose, he only ate natural peanut butter.  The kind where you'd flip over the jar to read the ingredients and they'd say only "peanuts and salt."  He liked to smear liberal amounts onto toast in the mornings, using the crappy toaster you'd hocked from who knows where that you had to watch carefully, else something would surely catch fire.

            He had a tendency to talk to himself, you knew, a habit he'd picked up from his father.  Likely the only one.  It's what made it so easy for him to start narrating into his camera when he had abandoned scripts.  In fact, you almost hadn't noticed that's what he was doing because you had been so consumed with your newfound need for eternal glory that you didn't realize his mindless prattle wasn't so mindless anymore.

            And you knew that he loved you more than anything on earth.  Beyond friendship, beyond splitting rent, beyond lesbian ex-girlfriends, beyond HIV, he loved you, and that was some undeniable truth, some universal bit of knowledge that was totally unquestionable.  The earth revolved around the sun, water and oil didn't mix, the filmmaker loved the musician.

            You knew that the day the virus in your blood would finally take you, he'd be sitting next to you, clutching your hand and wishing it was him.  You knew he'd give up his life for you and you knew you felt the same way.

            Yeah, you loved him.  Of course you did.  Really, how could you not?  He was such an incredible part of your life—of you—so special and so unique.  Completely irreplaceable.

            Still, it was the focus of a bit of an internal war for you.  Among other things, you didn't want the stigma of being gay, though you weren't really.  Just in love with your roommate, the loyal filmmaker with the beautiful eyes and sharp sense of wit.  And he certainly didn't care what people thought of him anymore, so long as it didn't question his work, and that made him a better person than you, which you already knew.  You'd walk through fire and back, though, just to make him smile, so really a little label was nothing to obsess on.  A moot point already, even though you were still technically friends.

            That, admittedly, was your fault.  You were afraid, scared shitless really.  Not of the love, because you already were more attached to him than anyone and had been for years.  You needed him and vice versa.  Mimi had found that tiresome; you'd often heard her quiet sigh after you'd leave her to climb the stairs of the old building to be with him.

            No, you were afraid of the consequences.  You couldn't predict what would happen and there was no way of guaranteeing his safety.  If he got sick because of you, you'd never forgive yourself.  Another regret to add to the pile.  'Forget regret' Mimi had always told you, but that was such bullshit.  You had plenty of regrets and they all dealt with him.

            He'd risk the danger for you and that was so scary you couldn't put it into words.  Once, not too long ago, when Collins had fallen ill and once again you were forced to face mortality dead on (pun intended, you thought, as you chuckled bitterly), your filmmaker had said something.  He said if he truly was the healthy one, the one to survive, what was the point of living if no one else was around?  If you weren't around, is what went unspoken there, but you'd heard it loud and clear.  Collins had gotten better, though, and the conversation was dropped, so you didn't have to think of anything to say to that.  For the time being, anyway.

            Little did he know that was your biggest regret: leaving him.  It was inevitable and that was fucking scarier than anything—not death but an existence without each other.  Because of that, you had become so consumed with the need to leave something behind.  Fame, money, glory?  That was all great, an added bonus, but at this point you just wanted to leave something for him.  Something he could have when you weren't there.

            But you were healthy now and much, much too scared to really contemplate that day or being with him or being without him or a hundred other things that frightened you.  Right now you were content to sit on the table, tune your guitar and grin at him, for no reason other than you loved how it lit up his eyes.  Because after all this time together, you knew a couple things and they were all how to make him happy.


End file.
